


For You and Your Denial

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Community: wizsprogs, M/M, Mpreg, Quidditch, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:04:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marcus Flint, star Chaser for the Tornadoes, is knocked from his broom during a game against Puddlemere, he is shocked to find out that his balance is shot because he’s pregnant. Sidelined for months, severely closeted Marcus must come to terms with being outed, his relationship going public, and what the <i>bleep</i> is he going to do without <i>Quidditch</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May, 1996

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** …he can’t play Quidditch because he’s pregnant? What is this madness? (For freakingcrups)
> 
> Dear requester, I hope this works for you. I kind of squealed happily when I saw your prompt because I have complete love for Flint, and I was so excited to write this story, although it grew a lot longer than I originally intended, and may not be quite what you were looking for. I just hope it suits! As always, many thanks to my beta reader E, and to my “reader response” readers S and I. <3 to you all. And of course, JK Rowling owns these characters and this world, I just love to play with them.

The last thing Marcus remembered was pulling up on the front of his broom and dropping into a Flint Twist. It was his signature move, designed to reverse direction and place him perfectly to take the quaffle and put it in before the Keeper saw it coming. And it worked well, even against Puddlemere, who was already up by four goals over the Tornadoes. No matter how many times he did it, Wood still couldn’t keep up with him.

That’s what made it one of Marc’s favorite moves: that it was one of the ways he could get around Wood on the Quidditch pitch.

And it was one of the things that made games between Puddlemere and the Tornadoes so damned popular, getting a chance to watch the infamous Flint/Wood rivalry in action. He always looked forward to those games, a chance to test himself against his old rival.

He saw Blake take the quaffle right, and he pulled up and twisted, dropped, waiting for the right moment to pull out of the fall.

He didn’t hear the shout, didn’t remember the impact of hitting the ground.

Everything went black.

#

His head ached something fierce.

“…the fuck?” he muttered, pushing himself up onto one elbow, blinking into the darkness. “Wand. Fuck. Why the fuck is it so bloody dark?”

The door opened, a young mediwitch coming in, light spilling in from the hall behind her and making Marcus’ head ache even more. He flinched, one hand coming up to shade his eyes. Sound spilled in at the same time, a brief snippet of an emphatic voice: “…until we know his prognosis. Puddlemere…”

Marcus groaned as the door shut. “Don’t want Puddlemere,” he muttered.

“I’ll tell the healer, but I’m quite certain they’d like their representative to stay until you’ve been cleared,” the mediwitch said cheerily. “How are you feeling, Mr. Flint?”

“Like I’ve been trampled by a bloody dragon,” he grumbled. “What the fuck happened?”

Her hands were light against him, and he held still, trying to take stock as she touched him. Nothing seemed to be bandaged, or broken, or patched in odd ways. Just a headache and a strong wave of nausea and dizziness every time he moved.

“Bludger,” she said, in the tone of someone who often had to explain Quidditch accidents. “It struck the front end of your broom, and you tilted. You ought to’ve been able to correct but something made you spiral out of control, and you fell.”

“I fell off the broom.” Impossible. Marcus Flint hadn’t fallen off his fucking broom since he was five years old.

“You’ll be staying for observation until we determine why you lost control,” she said cheerily. “Are you experiencing any nausea? Dizziness? Pain?”

“M’going to puke.” It was all the warning he gave her before he leaned over the edge and did just that.

The door pushed open again, and the mediwitch looked up, a sudden smile brightening her expression. “Mr. Wood, you can’t be in here.”

Right, as if Wood would be denied anything he ever wanted. He just grinned and the mediwitch melted. “I only need a few minutes with Flint here, then I’ll be out of your hair completely. Are you all done?”

“Just one more moment.” She made quick work of her remaining spells, as well as vanishing the mess Marcus had made, then ducked out, leaving the two of them alone in a darkened room.

“Sod off.”

“Is that any kind of a greeting?” Oliver pulled up the only chair next to the bed, hand falling on Marc’s arm. “When you went down—”

Marcus yanked his arm back. “S’not the place for it,” he growled. “We’re in bloody St. Mungo’s, you sodding arse. Do you want to have the Prophet all over you when you walk out of here, asking why you’re visiting the enemy?”

“I’m here because Puddlemere is concerned about the health and well-being of any opposing player injured during a match,” Oliver quoted easily. He had all the charisma, and Marcus knew he’d be able to dance by any reporters with that glib explanation. Didn’t make it any easier.

Marcus growled, muttering under his breath until Oliver bent and claimed his mouth in a bruising kiss. “Shut up, you arse,” Oliver spoke against his mouth. “Just shut up. You scared the shite out of me. Since when do you fall off a broom?”

“Don’t know.” Marcus brought his hand up, cupping Oliver’s head, holding him there as if he might disappear. “Just—fuck. Don’t know. Remember going into the twist and thinking you didn’t see me so I could get a shot through, then I was here. They get anything out of the review?”

“They’ve been over it,” Oliver admitted. “They saw the Bludger hit your broom, then it—it looks like you fainted.”

Marcus glared at him. “Flints don’t _faint_.”

Oliver drew back, coming to his feet in a fluid motion, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall before the healer came in. Marcus growled once more for good measure, but Wood ignored him completely, giving the healer plenty of room and staying silent so he wasn’t tossed from the room.

“I just need you to sit up, Mr. Flint.” The healer wedged an arm under his shoulders, helping him do just that, leaning back against the pillows. “There we go. Now lie still.”

“Get out, Wood,” Marcus growled.

“Oh, I’m just waiting until I can be sure you won’t be taking a case against Puddlemere,” Oliver said mildly. “Don’t mind me. Official business.”

“Sod off.”

“Mr. Flint, if you could be quiet.” The healer murmured spells Marcus didn’t recognize, wand near his head first, then his heart, then his abdomen. He saw Oliver shift in the background, not quite able to completely feign disinterest at the diagnostic spells.

Marcus had difficulty sitting still, not liking the speculative look the healer was giving him. After a time, the healer glanced at Oliver. “Mr. Wood, if you’d step out? Mediwitch Stacey will show you to the waiting area.”

“I know where the waiting area is,” Oliver said mildly. “I’ve already spent several hours there. I’ll be staying right here.”

“Mr. Wood—”

“Forget him,” Marcus growled, reaching out to grab the healer’s green robes and pull him back to facing him. “What the fuck are you going to say is wrong with me?”

“It’s your right to have a private consultation—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Wood.” Marc’s hand tightened, dragging the healer down close to him. “He knows when to keep his fucking mouth shut. You, on the other hand, need to learn when to bloody well start talking.”

He stayed there, nose to nose with the healer for a long moment before the healer finally spoke.

“You’re pregnant.”

“Bloody fucking hell.” Marcus shoved the healer away, turning to put his legs over the edge of the bed so he could stand shakily. “You’re a fucking quack. There’s no fucking way m’pregnant.” He didn’t look at Oliver, not wanting to betray anything as he growled, “Not a fucking word out of you, Wood. Not to anyone at Puddlemere, or to the fucking press. You keep your mouth shut.”

He could hear the quiet tension that underlined the words when Oliver spoke to the healer. “Other than that, he’s fine? No injuries from the match?”

“Healthy as a hippogryff, but his balance is shot.” The healer scrawled something on a pad of paper, and ripped off the page, handing it to Marcus. “Contact this healer for a followup visit; you’ll need regular care until you give birth. Male pregnancy’s a tricky thing, and there aren’t many good enough to take the case. I’d recommend contacting the lover you’ll deny having and letting him know he’s going to be a father,” the healer added dryly. He wisely was already standing by the door when he added, “And no more Quidditch until after the child’s born.”

He was gone, silence in the dark room left behind.

“Marc—”

He didn’t look at Oliver, didn’t look past the darkness of his own eyelids as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Out, Wood.”

“No.”

Marcus didn’t stand up to Oliver often in private. He rarely refused him. But now—now he just needed to be on his own. “Get the fuck _out_ , Wood. _Now_.”

He waited until he heard the door click open and closed before he leaned over, elbows on his knees and head bowed as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Fuck. Just… _fuck_.

#

Marcus had two days of peace before the Daily Prophet found out.

_Tornadoes star Chaser sidelined by pregnancy_  the headlines screamed out. The picture showed him mid-flight, characteristic snarl twisting his mouth as he went into a roll. Another picture, later in the article, showed him crumpled on the ground after the fall.

The article itself was brutal, speculating on his sex life, the identity of his lover, and how this might affect his relationship with Anabelle Pucey.

If only they knew.

They had a quote from Puddlemere, of course, their Keeper and team captain, Oliver Wood, stating for the record that had Puddlemere had any idea that Flint was pregnant, of course they would have called for a reserve player to replace him on the pitch. And that Puddlemere wished him all the best for himself and his child.

The Tornadoes had already pulled Bri Hutchinson from the reserve Chasers to take his place against the Chudley Cannons this coming weekend. He had a letter from the team manager telling him to stay home and rest, as if he were some kind of sodding invalid. Fuck that. They were more worried about the idea that he was a pansy, he figured, than that he was fucking pregnant.

Fuck.

It hit him again, how fucking _impossible_  it was. He’d taken precautions. It was bloody well rare for a wizard to get pregnant, but it happened more often to the purebloods than anyone else. Old magic had unpredictable results sometimes. But a wizard had to <i> _want_ </i> to get pregnant, and Marcus sure as fuck didn’t want that. He wanted to play Quidditch.

What could one flight do?

He dressed quickly, taking the Floo from his flat straight into the Tornadoes’ clubhouse. He could hear the noise of the team in the locker room, so with his jaw set, he went in.

All sound stopped.

“…the fuck are you lot staring at?” Marcus growled. “M’not that late for practice.”

“I thought you weren’t flying?” Hutchinson was a big girl, not as tall as Marcus’ 6’3” height, but pretty damned close. That was something the Tornadoes had going for them. Their Chasers weren’t afraid to get physical, larger than most anyone else but a Beater on the pitch.

“He’s not.”

Marcus ignored the voice as he stowed his outer robes in his locker, pulling out his broom, running his hand along the shaft. “Yeah. I am. M’not playing in the game, but m’going up for practice.”

His teammates were a bunch of sodding pansies, the way they disappeared from the room, leaving Marcus with the manager of the Tornadoes: Jamie Madsen. Marcus continued to ignore him, pulling on his gear, searching through his locker for the gloves he knew must’ve got tossed in there at some point after the game. Hoped they were, anyroad, since he didn’t want to have to replace them. They’d been a bloody gift.

“No, you’re not, Flint.” Madsen hesitated, steel in his voice when he said loudly, “Flint.”

“Mm?” Marcus turned to look at him. “M’flying, Madsen. S’nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Yeah, there is.” Jamie Madsen crossed his arms, not intimidated by Flint looming over him. “You go out there, you’re suspended. You keep pushing it, I’ll boot you from the team. I recommend you take your medical leave and fight for your first string spot back when you’re done. I know a good nanny service to recommend, if your husband—”

Marcus interrupted him with a feral growl. “M’not fucking married and m’not fucking _bent_.”

Madsen’s expression didn’t change. “The healers didn’t get it wrong, Flint. You’re pregnant. Which means no Quidditch, and you’ve got a while to figure out how to deal with your personal life. Find out when you’re due. We’ll see you three months after that.”

Marcus’ jaw set, a low growl rumbling in his chest, rising into his throat. Hands fisted at his sides, but he knew Madsen was right. Marcus wasn’t going to stop flying because of this. And if he wanted his place on the team, he couldn’t get himself sacked. Fuck.

He exhaled roughly and yanked his gear back off, tossing it into the locker. He kept the broom out as he slammed the locker closed, spelling it locked. “M’still a part of this fucking team,” he growled.

“You’re the part of this team that’s on leave,” Madsen said. “Go. Come back when you’ve got something useful to tell me. I’ll expect to see you at the games.”

“On the bloody _bench_?” Shite, but that was bloody well rude, not letting him fly and expecting him to watch his team in the air.

Madsen gave him a mild look. “On the bench. Like you said, Flint: you’re still a part of this team. Act like it.”

By the time Madsen’s office door closed, Marcus was already in the Floo and gone.

#

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Marcus didn’t bother looking. There were only three people, maybe four, who’d bother climbing up to the roof to find him, and he wasn’t sure the others were even talking to him after the article came out. But Wood, fucking Gryffindor that he was, wasn’t likely to stay away. So Marcus just ignored him, lying back against the roof, arms behind his head. “Go away.”

“I thought we got past this attitude a year ago,” Oliver said mildly, sitting down with his knees bent, hands back against the roof. He looked up. “I like it better here when the stars are out. It’s hot in the sun.” He went silent a moment, but Marcus didn’t bother to join the conversation, figuring Oliver would manage to keep it up on his own. Funny, he was right, as Oliver glanced at him. “Your mum wants to know who’s been fucking you and ruining your reputation. Never thought I’d hear that word from your mum. She’s always seemed such a proper pureblood.”

“She is,” Marcus growled. “She’s fucking well horrified. More that m’bent than that m’pregnant.”

“Decided to admit it then?” Oliver asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Marc’s jaw tightened, and his eyes pressed closed. “Saw the healer. Said m’about four months. Ought to start fucking well bloating like a bloody cow soon. Can’t go back to Quidditch until February.”

Quiet silence, before Oliver said, “Due in October? Think you might manage the thirteenth of the month?”

“S’not like I get to fucking schedule a birth, Wood,” Marcus growled. “It’s not for your fucking birthday present. S’my life that’s fucked up here.”

“I saw the Prophet.”

“You and the rest of the wizarding world.” Marcus grumbled. He’d had an owl from Pansy while he was here, his cousin not seeming to care that he was pregnant and more annoyed at him not telling her he was bent. As if he wanted to go around yelling that from the rooftops. Wasn’t _right_. He was supposed to get married, get the _girl_  pregnant, have wee Flint heirs. Not be banned from Quidditch because he couldn’t sit a broom and soon he’d be larger than a bloody whale. He growled his irritation. “They all want to know who the fuck the father is.”

And that there was the fucking question. How much to tell. What to say.

“You’re the one wanted to keep things quiet,” Oliver pointed out.

“S’better for ticket sales,” Marcus muttered. “Rivalry and all that shite. Folks eat it up.”

“Right. We’re just ignoring the sticky situation of you being bent and getting married.”

Marc’s jaw set, and he refused to look over. “S’not what I want to talk about. Not now.”

“Then when _are_ we going to talk about it?” Oliver’s hand was flat against Marc’s chest, shoving him back against the roof while Oliver stretched out over him. The kiss was a claiming, deep and strong, not letting Marcus slip away. Waiting until Marc responded, until he couldn’t help but groan into the kiss when he felt the pull of Oliver’s fingers in his hair.

“Fuck…” Marcus groaned softly.

Oliver pushed himself up, leaning over Marcus, body half on top of him. “You’re carrying my child,” he said quietly. “You can’t ignore that, Marc. I’m not going to just let this go.” When Marcus was silent, Oliver’s expression turned to steel. “And you’re not even thinking—”

“M’not,” Marcus growled. “S’good, to have a kid. S’just not s’posed to be me fucking well doing it.”

“It sure as hell wasn’t going to be me,” Oliver pointed out, laughing when Marcus glared. His expression gentled, hands soft for a moment in ways that bothered Marcus more than anything else, because he could feel the affection in his touch. “We’ll figure something out. Once I come out—”

Marcus interrupted him, pushing him off and over, as Marcus shifted to loom over Oliver instead. “No,” he growled. “You’ll fucking well stay how it is. You’re not going to ruin your career—”

“It wouldn’t ruin my bloody career, Flint.”

Both sitting up now, leaning in close, glaring.

Marcus wanted to kiss him, then hated himself for that urge. “Sod off, Wood. S’my problem to deal with.”

“It’s a bloody _baby_ , Marc. Not a _problem_.”

“Marcus!” The yell came from inside the house, through the stairwell, from someone waiting down below the access to the roof. A female voice, and one they both recognized.

“Ana…”

“Right.” Oliver stood up, collecting the broom he’d brought to the roof with him. “I’m brave, but I’m not stupid. And I’d bet you’re not ready to tell her yet.”

Marcus sat hunched over his knees, stomach churning at the thought of this conversation. “She doesn’t need to know shite,” he muttered. “Just go.”

Another pause before Oliver launched himself from the roof, catching air with his broom and twisting in maneuver similar to Flint’s trademark maneuver as he sped off. Marcus watched him disappear, waiting until Ana called his name again before he unfolded himself and lowered himself through the trap door and down the stairs, back into the attic of the manor.

#

Two years ago, when Marcus first started playing for the Tornadoes, and his mother suggested Anabelle Pucey as his potential bride, Marcus hadn’t argued. After all, he’d had a fancy for Adrian at one point, and was mates with both him and Anabelle, who was of an age between the two boys. His mother had originally intended for the two to marry when Anabelle finished Hogwarts, but Marcus had put things off, claiming that he didn’t want marriage to interfere with his Quidditch career. Now, though, the reason was out, and he had to explain to his fiancée.

She sat on a trunk, her robes neatly arranged over her legs, hands clasped in her lap. As soon as he emerged from the stairs, she came gracefully to her feet to greet him, kissing his cheek fondly. “Did I hear voices with you on the roof?”

Marcus grunted, not wanting to explain that part of it. “Doesn’t matter,” he brushed it off. “You’ve seen the Prophet.”

“Everyone has,” she said quietly, hand stroking against his arm. “We need to talk.”

“You can keep the ring.” His words were low and grumbled. “S’not an heirloom. Gus gets that one for his wife.”

Ana drew back to look at him. “Is that what you think this is about? Marcus, we’ve been friends a long time, and if you think I’m abandoning you, you’ve got another thought coming. Although I’d like to say that this doesn’t surprise me.”

“That m’pregnant?” Marcus gave her a dubious look and she smiled.

“No, that you’d rather be with a bloke,” she said. She framed his face and kissed him gently on the lips. “It explains everything.”

Right. Like the part where he didn’t want to snog her, no matter how fond he was of her. The idea of doing anything else made his stomach twist in uncomfortable ways. “So what now?” He looked to her for guidance; this had never been his idea, and he just went where he was told to go. It was how he had always expected his life to be. He had Quidditch; everything else could be set by his family, and his wife.

Course, now he didn’t even have fucking Quidditch. Bloody hell.

“We break up,” she said. “Publicly. Very loudly. You take me out tonight, and we break it off. I’ll throw the ring at you and curse you, and I’ll storm out.”

It was what he’d expected, but he hadn’t expected the knot he felt in his gut at the idea. His jaw tightened, brow furrowing until she reached up, smoothing over his skin.

“Privately, I’m still your friend, and I’m here to talk to you, any time you need it, or support you. Adrian’s arsed off, but I’m sure you knew that.” She made a face. “He doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.”

“Because m’bent.”

“And because that offends him.” Ana wrapped her arms around him, hugging him quietly. “I’m sorry, Marcus. He’s being a complete prick about this.”

Marcus shrugged. “S’what I expected. Cade, too.”

“They’ll come round.”

When she stepped back, Marcus stood there, hands hanging limp by his sides, feeling awkward and angry at the confusion. “What now? You and me, we’re done. M’father’s already said he’s writing me out of the fucking inheritance. Mum’s fucking cursing at me. Gus—fuck, haven’t seen him yet, but that’s arsed, m’sure, not that we ever got on to start with. And I can’t even play fucking _Quidditch_.”

Ana tangled her fingers with his, as comfortable as they had been as children, when the Puceys, Flints, and Warringtons had all grown up together. “Let’s just get things going and figure it out as we go along. Just remember, I’m staying by your side, no matter what the rest of the world thinks.”

“Right. Quaffle in the air, then see how to get it to the goal.” He paused, then asked, “Why are we breaking it off again?”

“Because that’s what’s expected. And in order to get what we want, we have to give them their show.” Ana brushed a kiss against his cheek. “I’ll see you at half six. Our reservations are for seven, and we ought to be done by eight. I’ll see you back at your flat tonight, and we’ll talk.”

She walked off, and it occurred to Marcus that this was his life. A series of non-decisions controlled by others, to the point where he had no idea how to make a decision of his own. No matter, they had a plan, and who created it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it got done.


	2. June, 1996

Marcus couldn’t sit on the bench. It felt wrong to have his arse down when he’d been starting since two months after he’d joined the Tornadoes. He crossed his arms just above the swell of his stomach that had started, glaring at the team as they flew. Fucking idiots, all of them, far as he was concerned. Oh they weren’t worried about getting in there and getting shite done. But they didn’t know how to do it. They were more than willing to knock a bloke off his broom, but only if someone got in their way.

His jaw tight, he felt an answering kick every time he growled, and started to pace because walking seemed to soothe the wee bean sommat.

“Flint!”

Madsen. Fuck. He turned, expression tight, glaring at the manager. “Yeah?”

“C’mere. We’re going to talk.”

Ah, fuck. This was it, where he went from fucking benched to sacked. Wasn’t a surprise, not when he couldn’t fly for most of the season. Just let him go, cut him loose and let another team pick him up when he could get in the air again. His hands fisted. It was the right decision, but didn’t feel any better for it. He belonged in the fucking air. He knew Quidditch better than some of these idiots, for all that they’d been flying longer than him.

“What?” He crossed his arms defensively, chin up, square jaw waiting for the hit.

“Sit.”

Marcus looked at the edge of the bench, then at Madsen who was still standing, and growled, “No.”

Madsen sat on the edge of the bench and waited, not saying a word, until Marcus unbent enough to sit his arse on the sun-warmed wood. “I’ve been thinking,” Madsen started. “You ought to make good on those threats you’re bellowing out.”

Marc’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I’m still paying you, and I want to get some good out of you, Flint. You’ve got a good eye for the offense. Billig’s a good defensive player, and Daily’s a good defensive coach. But defense doesn’t get us points.” Madsen jabbed a finger at Marcus. “You can’t fly, but you can bloody well coach. So make good on those threats of yours. They ignore you, bench ‘em. Drill them. Get me some scoring so we’re not relying on Wigglesworth catching the Snitch for our wins. We’ve got our second match against Puddlemere in a month, and all I’ve been hearing is shite about how they’re a shoe-in for the championship this year. You love knocking Wood around; you get this team in shape and knock those arses off their pedestal.”

Marc’s teeth ground at the mention of Oliver Wood. He hadn’t seen the other bloke since he’d thrown him out. Not a word after Marcus’ very public engagement break from Anabelle Pucey. Not a word asking how the baby was, not another poke about how they ought to come out. It was good, not having to fight all the time, but fuck—Marc didn’t want to admit that he missed the company.

“Fine,” he agreed.

“You still can’t go up on a broom,” Madsen reminded him.

Marcus scowled. “How the fuck am I s’posed to coach from the ground?”

Madsen smiled. “You’ll find a way. You’ve got a loud voice. Use it.”

Fine. Marcus turned his attention back to the team, wincing as he saw Hutchinson sitting on her arse, not moving while she waited for someone to notice her. “Hutchinson!” he barked out, motioning her over. “Get your arse over here and we’ll go over that sodding play. Again.”

#

It only took a day for the papers to get hold of this new news tidbit. Marcus suspected Madsen had something to do with that; after all, news brought up ticket sales, which brought up the worth of the team. Thanks to Marcus, more folks were talking about the Tornadoes than ever, and more had been coming to see the games. Which made his bench-warming arse the subject of more speculation than he cared to be in the middle of, but he couldn’t help that. He wasn’t letting go of his spot on the team.

Marcus growled as he read the article, noting that it focused less on his accomplishments and strengths for coaching, and more on the unknown identity of the father of his child, not to mention the fact that his engagement ring had been thrown in his face not weeks ago. And the irony of it all was the article on the other half of the page, showing Oliver Wood (expected to win the Cup this year) with a beautiful blond witch on his arm.

The worst of it was, Marcus figured Oliver had to be shagging the girl. After all, Oliver didn’t really care what warmed his bed, as long as they were interesting. Not that Oliver’d been shagging anyone but Marcus in over a year. At least until now. Fuck. Didn’t matter. He’d told him to go and obviously, Oliver had bloody well gone. Nothing to be done about it now.

Irritation didn’t keep Marcus from reading the article, about one Bonnie Samuelson, apparently a mediwitch from America. There were rumors flying that she might be “the one,” and that he’d met her a year and a half ago when he’d had a fall during an exhibition game in New York, and she was the mysterious reason why he hadn’t been seen dating since. They certainly were cozy now, with several photographs accompanying the article, until Marcus growled again and crumpled up the paper, tossing it into the Floo and watching it go up in flames.

He was still staring at the flickering light when the colour shifted, giving him warning that someone was about to step out. He stood, pulling his robes closed around his belly as best he could. Fuck. He had to get out and get new clothes one of these days, but he sodding well didn’t want to go into the tailors and deal with all those fucking eyes staring at him. Talking about him and how a Flint was dragging down the good pureblood name by being a pansy-arse bent bloke. And a bottom. Fuck.

“You look like shite.”

Marcus glared at Oliver, who was brushing soot from his trousers. “S’good to see you, too. Get out.”

“That’s not a very welcoming good morning.”

Marcus barely had time to blink and Oliver was in front of him, one hand behind his head, one at his waist, kissing him with bruising strength. Marc tried to resist, growling while Oliver pressed him back, pushing him into the wall and leaning into him, but _fuck_ , he had missed this. He wanted this, and fuck, but he _needed_ it, too. Marcus relented, kissing him back just as hungrily, feeling that ache starting in his gut as Oliver gentled the kiss, switching to slow and teasing. Drawing out a reaction, teasing Marcus when he tried to chase him and deepen the kiss to something that was almost a fight again.

“Bloody hell, Wood, stop fucking trying to drive me mad,” Marcus growled.

“That was just saying hello,” Oliver told him. “Not the start of the main course. Not yet. We need to talk first.”

Talk. Fuck. Right. “About the bird you’ve been fucking for the past year, according to the paper?”

“You know I haven’t been shagging anyone but you,” Oliver pointed out, not letting go and not moving away. 

Marcus could feel the hard ridge where Oliver leaned against him, and his own answering response. It’d be better with this bloody belly in the way, but at the same time, pressure seemed to waken the wee bean, making him move about in uncomfortable ways. He shoved at Oliver, trying to get space, but all it got him was Oliver changing how he was held, hips now fit as close to hips as could be managed with the baby in the way, and Oliver’s mouth at Marc’s throat. Fuck. S’good.

“You were the only bloke in my bed,” Oliver murmured between teeth and tongue stroking along Marc’s skin.

“Were?” Marcus growled, trying to hold in a moan and failing. “Bloke?”

Oliver shook him, hard, and Marcus loved that moment of fight. “Only _person_ in my bloody bed,” Oliver said sharply.

That didn’t help, though, because Oliver said it in the past tense. Like something changed. “And the bird?” he pushed at it, poking, needing to know the answer.

“We didn’t shag when I got hurt.”

Which was answer enough, and Marcus growled and shoved, hard this time, enough to make space for him to slip out and away. Oliver may not’ve shagged the bird back then, but he was shagging her now, Marc was sure of it. “Papers’ll eat it up. Announce your engagement. Prophet might just pay for the fucking wedding, if they get to be the only ones to cover it.”

“What the hell are you on about?” Oliver followed Marcus across the room, grabbing his shoulders and turning him to face him again. “I’m not marrying Bonnie. Yeah, I’m shagging her. She came over to see one of my teammates and he wanted nothing to do with her, and after we had a few pints, we ended up in bed. But it’s not anything serious. Papers love it, yeah, but they don’t know what the fuck’s going on in my life and this,” his hand fell to Marcus’ abdomen, “is more important than some girl.”

Marcus glared at him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s already ruining my fucking career. S’not going to do that same for you.”

“I read the paper, Marc. I saw that you’re coaching. That’s not a bad thing to be doing while you’re benched.”

“I _want_ to be in the air, not on the bench, Oliver. This is your fucking fault,” Marc snarled.

“Last I knew you were involved in the decision. Or didn’t you want my prick up your arse?” Oliver asked bluntly as he pulled Marc in again, anger seeping into the kiss.

This was how Marcus liked it. Brutal and painful and rough, hands pulling his clothes off, anxious and needy. Oliver’s hand on his back, bending him over the couch, letting him find a place where he could brace himself and leave room for his stomach as Oliver gripped his hips and readied him, finding lube somewhere and then slipping inside.

Quick. Hard. Growling and snapping and muttered curse words until he was shuddering, coming against the couch and Floo, feeling Oliver fill his ass.

Marcus was shaking when it was done, fists pressed against his face as he felt unbidden tears rising. Sodding fucking pansy. Hands stroked against his back, rough but light. Caring.

“I’m going to talk to the papers soon,” Oliver said quietly. “We’re good together, Marc. And I’m going to be involved with our child.”

Marcus tried to imagine that, creating some kind of a life with Oliver. Then he remembered the bad press he’d already received, and how much trouble the Tornadoes were taking with a pansy as a coach. Wood led Puddlemere, and he was respected. Marcus couldn’t let him lose that. “No,” he said quietly. “S’not going to happen. M’not going to let you do that.”

“It’s my life, and it’s my decision.” Oliver tugged him to standing, wrapping his arms around him from behind. It always struck Marc as odd how well they fit, even with their different builds. But they did, Oliver’s long legs counteracting Marc’s height. Marcus groaned inwardly, not wanting to lose this.

“S’your fucking fault,” he muttered. “Your fault I want shite like this. S’fucking weakness.”

“I love you,” Oliver said. “Opposing team, cantankerous bastard and all.”

Marcus swallowed. “Yeah. That’s the problem. Love makes you an idiot.” And the worst part was that Oliver had somehow tamed him, changed him, and Marcus knew he didn’t actually want Oliver to walk away. Because fuck, he loved him.

Oliver went still behind him. “Tell me you don’t love me back.”

Marcus had never said the words. Oliver had said them before, had tried to coax it out of Marcus. But he wasn’t going to admit to the fucking weakness, and especially not now.

He spoke slowly, carefully, enunciating each word. “I don’t love you.” He felt Oliver go stiff behind him in response, and he gritted his teeth after he felt the other man pull away. Was for the best. “Go fuck your bird again,” Marcus said quietly. “She’s better for you, anyroad.”

“I came here to tell you I didn’t want her, I want you,” Oliver said, even as he stepped away, doing up his trousers. “I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Seems to me, though, you just don’t give a fuck. So that’s it then. This break is permanent.”

Marcus didn’t turn around, not even when the footsteps stopped by the edge of the fireplace. He knew his face would tell the truth, and he wasn’t letting Oliver see it.

Oliver’s tone was deceptively light. “I’ll set up an account, send you a monthly stipend for the baby. It’s only fair. After all, whether you’re coaching, or if you ever get back on a broom, you’ll never earn as much as me. Providing for the kid is the least I can do.”

“You’re an arse, Wood,” Marcus muttered. Although he knew it was only because he wanted him to be. And he stood there, listening to the flames come to life, the sound of footsteps, then the silence in the aftermath. All that was left was Marcus, standing around with nothing on, bloody well cold now that he was alone.


	3. July, 1996

Marcus might not be in the air himself, but at least his fucking team was winning. He’d been in the Prophet three more times since that first article about his appointment as coach, and by the last time, they’d stopped listing him as “Marcus Flint, Tornadoes player benched by unplanned pregnancy” and started listing him instead as “Marcus Flint, former star Chaser for the Tornadoes.” He didn’t like the word former, as if it were over and done with for good, but fuck it was good not to have to see his pregnancy mentioned every time his name was.

The difference was that the Tornadoes had won every match since he’d started coaching, and were being lauded for playing aggressive Quidditch with surprising new plays. They’d outscored the other team and caught the Snitch in two of the games, and in the third game had managed to score enough points to win despite failing to capture the Snitch.

The team no longer grumbled when Marcus growled at him. They listened intently, watching as he drew plays out and then drilled them on them until they were ready to fall over. But he was bloody well determined to add two new potential plays each match, and keep surprising the other teams.

More importantly, he was determined that they’d beat Puddlemere in their next match.

The whole team knew it, how important this was for him. As they pulled on equipment, Hutchinson came up to where he was drawing out Puddlemere’s plays from memory, so he could give them the edge of knowing what to expect. “We’re going to win it for you, Flint,” she said quietly. “It’s not their fault you’re benched, but bloody hell, it was their match that knocked you on your arse. You could’ve lost the baby from that.”

Marc’s jaw set. “Doesn’t matter that it was fucking Puddlemere,” he grumbled. “Just go out there and fucking well win.” He wanted to see the look on Oliver’s face when they won. Wood wasn’t used to losing, and there was something satisfying about the idea of doing it for a second time within a month. Had to show the arse that just because he was a fucking brave Gryffindor, he didn’t always get what he wanted. Whether that was winning the game, or Marc’s arse.

Not that he was going to mention Oliver and his arse to the team.

No, he went with a standard pep talk after Billig finished his talk about defense, giving them what he knew about Puddlemere’s plans, and telling them to kick arse. The other team was going to come out with bruises from this, he figured, but it’d be worth it.

When they took the field, Marcus walked, jaw tight as his team—and the other coaches—took to the air without him. He hated this part, hated the soft susurrant sounds in the stands, whispering about him and his condition. But this time there was an energy to the whispers, a buzz about the rivalry between him and Wood. There were rumors flying that since the Tornadoes were on a streak, this could be the match up of the season. When Marcus reached his spot by the bench, he stood with his hands at his hips, pressing forward, stretching his back from the weight of the baby. It gave him an excuse to look up, gaze drifting towards the Puddlemere rings, where Oliver hovered.

But as soon as the game began, he couldn’t spare a look for Oliver. The opposing Keeper only mattered in that Marcus had to make sure his team got around him to score. Which was bloody well hard, where Oliver was concerned, because he was a fucking brilliant Keeper. Marcus knew that, and had been working on new plays all week, drilling them unmercifully, trying to use Puddlemere’s own defense against itself.

“Hutchinson!” he bellowed. “Streak!”

He watched her drop, barreling straight for the Puddlemere player with the quaffle, twisting as she went by and picking up the ball as if it were nothing. She tossed it to another player and zigged around. Marcus watched his three Chasers weave, Beaters following them, the Bludgers batted back and forth as his players avoided them. They were constantly on the move, twisting up and dropping down, moving the quaffle in all three dimensions, not heading straight for the rings. They did exactly what Marcus had told them to do. He watched one of them set up, aiming… watched as Oliver caught sight and went to intercept. But Hutchinson had slipped past Oliver’s view, and the throw went wide, straight into her hands. She lobbed it, almost behind her back, right into the hoop before Oliver could manage to get back.

He tried anyway, zipping over on his broom towards her, just as one of his teammates batted the Bludger at Hutchinson. She saw it coming and ducked.

Marcus felt his heart stop when the Bludger hit Oliver dead on. Right side of the chest. Shoulder. Arm. Something.

He heard the scream, swore he heard the crack. Saw Oliver dive.

He didn’t remember running across the pitch, just that he was there by the time Oliver hit the ground, the broom and rider floating gently, saved by someone else’s spell. Oliver spilled off, curled into himself on the ground.

“Fuck.” Marcus dropped awkwardly into a crouch, growling at the medic who tried to push him back.

“We’ll update you on his status,” the mediwizard informed him curtly, wedging himself between Marc and Oliver.

“M’not leaving,” Marcus growled in return, as he stayed right where he was.

He heard the sounds of cameras, felt the flash. Knew they were recording this for the Prophet or whoever else was buying as he reached out and took one hand in his, holding on.

“I’m alright.” The words were soft and husky, barely heard.

“No you’re not,” Marcus countered. “You’re bloody well unconscious. That doesn’t count as fine, Wood.”

“You’re holding my hand.”

Marcus growled under his breath. “Stop talking.”

He had to move twice while the mediwizard helped Oliver sit up, then took a good look at the arm that was hanging limp from his shoulder. After three spells to immobilize the arm temporarily, the mediwizard gestured, and between the two of them they got Oliver up and able to walk off the pitch while the crowd cheered.

People bustled behind them, the reserve Keeper found and readied, the teams taking to the air once more. After all, the game wasn’t over, and Quidditch waited for no one. Not broken arms, or babies.

Marcus gritted his teeth together, not saying a word as questions were shouted. When they were met by the head coach of Puddlemere and Madsen, he gave Madsen a dark look. “M’going to hospital with him.”

“Figured as much,” Madsen said mildly. “I think your team can manage your plays without you. I’ll expect a full medical report after. You’re our representative on site.”

Well, that was a fucking polite way of ignoring the situation, and Marcus appreciated it. Give him a job to do, and a reason. He wondered just how much the bloke from Puddlemere had already guessed last time, when Oliver’d followed him to St. Mungo’s. He glanced over, glaring when he saw the assessing look. Knowing. Fuck.

Didn’t matter right now. Couldn’t. Just had to focus on making sure Oliver was going to be alright.

#

They wouldn’t let Marcus into the room while Oliver was being examined. They assured him he’d have a report as soon as one was available, but Marcus didn’t care about that. He needed to see Oliver, see him awake and safe and not with his head clipped by a Bludger. He paced in his frustration, walking back and forth across the waiting room, one hand pressed to the small of his back in counterbalance to the bulge of his belly. Three nurses checked on him, making sure he wasn’t waiting to be seen, then scurrying away when Marcus glared at them and growled that he was fucking well _fine_.

“Three _weeks_!”

Marc’s head snapped up and he turned, staring at the door that hid Oliver from him. If he was yelling, things couldn’t be all bad. He strode over, glaring at the petite mediwitch who tried to get in his way, and pushed open the door.

“I can’t be out for three weeks,” Oliver protested. “This isn’t that bad. A week at the most, and I’ll be fine.”

Marcus snorted. “Right. Because three week’s a fucking long time to be off a broom.”

“Mr. Flint.” The healer looked over at him. “This is not the business of the Tutshill Tornadoes. I’ll be out to speak with you momentarily.”

“S’my business. Personally.” Marcus crossed his arms, not looking at Oliver. “M’staying.”

Silence for several moments, the healer looking confused.

“He can stay,” Oliver said quietly. “As long as he gets his arse over here.”

It was the moment of truth, and Marcus didn’t want to watch as the healer put it all together—how Oliver had followed him a couple of months ago, and how this was personal now. Instead he took a few steps and settled his large frame into the uncomfortable hospital chair by Oliver’s bed, one hand resting upon the mattress. He wasn’t surprised when Oliver’s hand covered his, and did his damnedest not to flinch and pull away in automatic response.

“If I can put up with however many bloody months it is, you can fucking well put up with three weeks,” Marcus told him.

“I’m not the one who’s pregnant,” Oliver countered.

“No, you’re the one who couldn’t get his slow arse out of the way of a Bludger thrown by his own teammate.”

Silence again, and Marcus was pleased to see that the jab had gone home.

He took the moment to look Oliver over, seeing the arm in a tight sling, held close to the body. “How bad was it?”

“Three ribs broken, as well as his collarbone, his upper arm, and his shoulder joint was shattered.” The healer gave Oliver a dark look. “The last is why he needs to spend at least three weeks healing. We have healed it to the best of our ability, but if he overstresses it before it is ready, he will be likely to dislocate it often and easily for the rest of his life.”

“Can’t hang from a broom with a dislocated arm,” Marcus pointed out mildly. Oliver said nothing, simply squeezed his hand sharply, so Marcus decided to take that as a point won.

“Three weeks minimum,” the healer repeated. “Six to be absolutely sure.”

“Six!”

Marcus reached over and clapped one hand over Oliver’s mouth. “Six. Yeah. I’ll be sure to make sure folks know.”

“And he can’t be released until his family arrives. The potions we’ve administered today will make him groggy, and he’ll have difficulty apparating.”

Marcus just looked at the healer. When he didn’t seem to follow along to the logical end, Marcus grumbled, “Family is already bloody well here, you idiot. M’not going to leave without him.”

“Ah.” The healer didn’t quite seem to know what to say to that. “I’ll just get your release documents then, and bring them in to be signed. And let those waiting know that you’re ready for visitors.”

Marcus wasn’t sure _he_ was ready for visitors, but he figured Oliver likely was. He didn’t get a chance to ask as Oliver twisted, letting go of his hand and pulling Marcus to him for a kiss. They were still locked lip to lip when the door opened again, and a bright flash of light went off.

“Mr. Wood, is it true you’ll be out for three weeks?”

“Ye—six actually,” Oliver corrected himself at Marc’s glare.

There were three of them there, in the doorway. One photographer, one reporter with a badge about her neck declaring her a member of the press from the Daily Prophet, and the Puddlemere team manager lingering near the background.

“And you and Mr. Flint: how long have you two been in a relationship?” the reporter, asked, as another photograph was taken.

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. Too late now. His own bloody fault.

“Bit more than a year or so,” Oliver said without a trace of hesitation.

“So it’s your baby?”

Oliver squeezed his hand, so Marcus looked up. Marc’s jaw was set, tension in every line of his body, but Oliver reached out, trying to smooth it away. “Yeah,” Oliver said. “It’s my baby.” He brushed his lips against Marcus’ lightly, laughing when Marc growled, then deepening the kiss to something that had the photographer snapping pictures quickly.

“Get out,” Marcus muttered as soon as the kiss broke.

“Me?”

Marcus rolled his eyes at Oliver’s question. “Them.” He gave a dark look to the others gathered in the doorway. “M’bloody well taking him home and you lot can bother him later. ‘Cept you,” he allowed for the team manager. “But no more fucking press. We deserve a little fucking privacy here.”

As the door closed again, leaving them almost but not quite alone, Oliver asked, “You alright with this?”

Marcus shrugged. “Don’t think it can get any worse for me. M’family’s already arsed off enough that I’m bent and pregnant in the first place. What about you?”

Oliver laughed. “I’m fine with it, Marcus. But you’re going to help me pack.”

“Pack?” Marcus was bewildered.

“Pack,” Oliver confirmed. “Because if I can’t fly, I’m bloody going to do something I want to do, and that’s moving into your flat. It’ll make it easier for you take care of me now, and much easier for after the baby’s born.”

“What makes you think I want you to move in?”

“Easy.” Oliver grinned, kissing him silent once more. “You always want whatever I say. And right now, I want you.”

Okay. Yeah. Marcus couldn’t argue much with that.


	4. Epilogue

After Lillian was born, Marcus understood why he wasn’t allowed to get back on a broom for a few months. Truth of the matter was, he couldn’t even consider the idea of sitting on a broomstick comfortably, let alone for an extended period of time. But the more healed he felt, the more he growled every time he watched Oliver or his team fly, and the worse it felt to still be grounded.

On the day he saw the healer and was cleared for normal activity again, he came back to his flat to get his broom, then immediately went out to the Tornadoes pitch. He was sitting on the bench, Lillian on his lap, staring at the broom on the ground when Oliver found him there.

“Been up yet?” Oliver sank onto the bench next to him, one hand idly sliding down Marcus’ back.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Fucked up thing was, Marcus wasn’t sure. He’d been itching for this for months now, and even that morning he’d been sure he’d be flying by lunchtime. But here he was, with the day heading into evening, ribbons of red streaming out from the setting sun, and the broom still sat there.

“Couldn’t go up with Lil,” he finally said. “Didn’t want to scare her.”

There was quiet, Oliver’s hand stilled against the small of his back. “Are you afraid to fly, Marc?”

That wasn’t it. He remembered falling, and he knew that the worst thing he could’ve done after that was to not get right back up. But that still wasn’t why he didn’t want to fly. He hadn’t lied. It was all about the wee bean in his arms, who trusted him, and who needed him. Who he’d brought into this world, complete with cursing Oliver out in the birthing room, and cursing anyone else who happened to be around as well.

He looked down at her, smiling when she smiled up at him, cooing. “One of us shouldn’t play Quidditch.” Marcus’ tone was flat, because he didn’t like this decision. He’d been meant to be in the air since he was a wee one himself. It felt wrong not flying. But… he needed to be sure one of them would always be there for Lillian, too.

“You’ve been doing brilliantly as a coach,” Oliver pointed out, his tone careful.

Marcus recognized how he spoke, wary, as if it might inspire a fight. Not that fighting was all bad, when it involved making up. And they’d been getting on well for the last few months, since Oliver had moved into Marc’s flat. His jaw tightened, taking change for what it was, and trying not to let it upset him. He nodded curtly.

“Yeah,” Marc muttered. “Turns out m’a good coach.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t belong in the air, too.”

Marcus glanced over at Oliver, and didn’t have time to react when his lover pulled him in, kissing him hard, fingers tangled in Marc’s short hair.

“Go up,” Oliver ordered. “Now. I’ll be on the broom beside you, but you will get that arse of yours in the air.”

“What about Lil?”

Oliver flicked his wand and the blankets around Lillian wound themselves about Marcus in a makeshift baby harness, keeping her safe and secure while she giggled happily. “She’ll be safe,” he said. “She knows you’d never let her fall.”

Marcus dragged in a deep breath, then picked up the bloody broom and swung one leg over. He was aware of Oliver next to him, and aware of the wee one strapped to his chest, still murmuring in her soft baby noises. Tension fell away as he lifted into the air, and he started to fly.

It came back to him easily, as simple as walking, as natural as breathing. He sped up to make Oliver chase them, then slowed down and dropped, Lillian laughing at the sensation. And in the end, with one hand carefully cradling his child, he went into a lazy roll.

“She’s going to grow up on a broom,” Oliver pointed out as they touched down again.

“Yeah, figured as much. Might as well get her used to the fun shite now.”

Oliver stripped off his gloves, tossing them onto the bench. “So. I take it this means you saw the healer and you’re cleared to fly again?”

“Fly. Play Quidditch if I want. Any shite, really. Cleared for all activity.”

Marcus felt the heat of the gaze, and he looked over to see Oliver staring at him.

“All activity.” Oliver slowly smiled, warmth rising in his expression. “Get your gear off, Marcus Flint. I’m taking you home and we’re putting our daughter to bed. I need some quality time.”

“Sounds like you’ve got something in mind,” Marcus said mildly, taking his time stripping off the gear, knowing it would infuriate Oliver. But he wanted that, wanted the passion and the fight. There was time for soft touches later.

And Oliver didn’t disappoint, waiting until Marcus had Lillian settled into her stroller before he grabbed Marcus and pushed him down on the bench, straddling him. “I most definitely do have something in mind. It has been a very long three months, and I don’t intend to let you out of bed much for the next three days to make up for it.”

Marcus arched into him, kissing him back hungrily. That was the just the sort of threat he liked.

“I love you,” Oliver murmured, gentling the kiss, nipping at his throat.

Sodding hell. And then Oliver had to go and say that.

Marcus rolled the words around, groaning softly at the feel of teeth against his skin, sighing when it stopped because Lillian made a noise and Oliver had to get up and go check on her. Marcus sat up slowly, watching his partner and their daughter.

Fine. Fuck. Just say it already.

He growled low under his breath, grumbling. “Love you too.”

The look on Oliver’s face was worth it: shock and hope, resolving into a sudden pleased smile. Marcus smiled slowly back.

Things had a funny way of working out. But in the end that’s what they did, as Marcus let his denial slip away.


End file.
